USA Today bestselling author Joanna Shupe returns with an angst-filled retelling of Beauty and the Beast, set against the excess and opulence of Gilded Age New York.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Gilded Rose by Joanna Shupe, which is out now.
Love isn’t always a fairy tale.
Charming and popular, Orson Grey is the most sought-after bachelor in Manhattan. When Caroline pledges to spend her life with him, it feels like the beginning of a fairy tale.
The fairy tale quickly turns into a nightmare.
Behind closed doors, Orson is controlling and cruel. Trapped by laws that prevent women from leaving unhappy marriages, Caroline has no choice but to endure her husband’s behavior. Each day grows more intolerable, and her frustration and resentment mounts. Even her passion for rare books is stifled, leaving her isolated and lonely, a fading rose trapped under glass.
When Caroline is offered the opportunity to catalogue a private library, she seizes it like a lifeline. Exploring the literary treasures, she discovers a friend in the library’s owner, Zane Bishop—a brilliant, wealthy recluse who was disfigured in an explosion years ago.
Thoughtful and kind, Zane is everything Orson is not. As their trust builds, Zane realizes that Caroline’s pain runs much deeper than she lets on. He suffers with her, knowing precisely of Orson’s cruelty firsthand. Zane will stop at nothing to set Caroline free, even if it means risking everything.
The Gilded Rose is a story of resilience, passion, and the transformative power of love.
EXCERPT
September, 1898
“Smile,” my husband hissed under his breath as we moved through the ballroom. His fingers pressed into my wrist almost to the point of pain. “I won’t have people thinking you aren’t proud to be on my arm.”
As we walked through the crowd, I affixed a grin on my face as if John Singer Sargent himself had drawn it there. With my hair coiffed in an elegant sweep and my new Worth gown, I knew I looked perfect. But inside I was screaming, protesting, wishing to be anywhere but here. The pretense exhausted me, and the entire joyless and soul-crushing night stretched ahead like dark, fathomless depths, ready to swallow me whole.
After eight weeks of marriage, I’d lost faith in myself, as well as the world around me. I thought the situation would improve once Orson and I returned from our honeymoon two weeks ago. In New York, I hoped to gain distance from him and reclaim a bit of my former life.
It proved impossible. In fact, it was worse.
Orson wished to know where I was at all times. He hated when I left the house, even for the simplest errand, and insisted on coming with me. Then he complained and hurried me through every outing, including visits with my father. Callers to the house were refused, which didn’t bother me. To be honest, I had no desire to put on a brave face for anyone—including for tonight’s ball.
I elongated my spine and lifted my head. “I wish to leave, Orson.”
We happened to pass a mirror and Orson stopped to check his reflection. “Nonsense. We’ve just arrived and everyone is staring at us, so we must give them what they want—a peek at the most handsome couple in all of New York.” His eyes flicked to me. “Besides, aren’t you curious about this place?”
“This place” was the home of one of New York’s most reclusive tycoons, Mr. Zane Bishop. No one ever saw him and he didn’t receive guests at his seventy-five-room mansion. His sister, however, was active in society and charities, a well-known figure about town. Somehow Camilla Bishop Marshall had convinced her brother to host tonight’s ball as a benefit for the Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor.
Seizing at the rare opportunity, all of Manhattan’s upper crust had turned out tonight. The ballroom was packed with an impressive list of society’s elite, wealthy businessmen, and Broadway actors. Even European royalty were mingling amongst the ice sculptures and coupes.
The old Caroline would’ve circulated and chatted easily with acquaintances until the wee hours. Now my skin itched with betrayal, my sharp eyes spotting duplicity in every smile and greeting. These people . . . I used to feel comfortable around them. Nestled in the bosom of their privilege, I never imagined I would be led astray, swindled into such a marriage as this. Why hadn’t anyone warned me about Orson? Shouldn’t there have been signs? They must have known.
I couldn’t look at their faces without wanting to shout at them for ruining my life.
The crowd swallowed us as we ventured deeper into the ballroom. Men clapped Orson on the shoulder, jostling him in enthusiastic greeting. Young women giggled behind their fans as he passed, their eyes devouring him like a bon bon from Schrafft’s. The older women used every excuse to brush against his arm, then murmured their apologies in a husky, inviting tone.
“What a beautiful couple,” Rebecca Barbey murmured as Orson and I drifted past.
Wearing his most charming smile, Orson drew us to a halt and faced the woman, who was standing with her husband. “Mr. and Mrs. Barbey. Good evening.”
Mr. Barbey bowed over my hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Grey. Marriage certainly agrees with you two.”
Hardly. My marriage felt like Hell on earth.
Orson squeezed my waist in a not-so-subtle prompt to speak. I blurted, “How do you do, Mr. Barbey, Mrs. Barbey?”
Mrs. Barbey looked me up and down carefully, as if searching for flaws. “Here you are, the lucky new bride. The whole city had been angling to get Orson Grey to the altar for years, yet you managed it in a few short weeks.”
I swallowed hard as I forced a smile, a headache brewing behind my eyes. “Quite lucky, indeed.”
“We must catch up one of these days. I’ll call on you and we’ll visit over tea.”
Rebecca Barbey and I weren’t close and I had no desire to visit with her. Refusing was rude, however. I opened my mouth to say . . . something. Then promptly closed it.
My husband addressed me, his tone no doubt coming off adoring to those in earshot. “My dear, I see someone I must speak with. I wonder if you’ll stay put until I return?” It wasn’t phrased as a request. Nevertheless, I nodded, grateful for a reprieve. “Of course.”
My husband excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding since we walked inside the ballroom and regarded the older couple. Mr. Barbey said, “I hear you honeymooned in Bar Harbor, Mrs. Grey. I love the place. I confess to being a bit of an angler, and the waters off the coast of Maine are a favorite of mine.”
Mrs. Barbey made a face then walked away, likely to avoid discussing fish, but her rudeness didn’t bother me in the least. The woman smacked of disingenuous intentions.
“Bar Harbor was enjoyable,” I lied. “Do you travel there often?”
During the next few minutes, as Mr. Barbey waxed poetic about bluefish, halibut, and cod, my attention wandered. I stared at the night beyond the huge windows and wondered if I could escape for a few minutes of fresh air. My head throbbed painfully.
Suddenly, a tall man caught my attention at the side of the room. Orson. I watched as he slipped through the french doors and into the night. Where was he off to in the middle of the—
Mrs. Barbey followed not five seconds behind. That was odd. Were they . . . ?
No, it was impossible. He wouldn’t dare. We were newly married, recently repeating vows before God and most of the people in this room. Orson wouldn’t carry on with an affair. Would he?
I had to find out.
